Seconds late
by Natalie Nallareet
Summary: What if, before the fall, before the woman, even before Moriarty, John made the mistake that any other person would have done during his very first case with Sherlock? What if he'd shot the serial killer cabby a second too late? John was half throne into the battle field of Sherlock's world before he failed. Sherlock/John, season 1, John's pov.
1. Chapter 1

**A/C:** One of the many three-shots that's coming this way, this one super depressing and angsty compared to my resent fluff. What if John hadn't stopped Sherlock from taking the pill in the very first episode? What if John was left alone even before Reichenbach? As one of my friends has kindly named it 'John's fail at life.'

**T** for character death, violence, and torture.

* * *

The pitch blackness of London was filled with the regular flashing lights of a crime scene, so unimportant, blaring beacons reminding of the reality. You didn't make it. You were a second too late. You could have saved him... Why does it even matter so much? You didn't know him? Met a day ago, just flatmates. But there had been such an instant bond, such a mysteriously clever, amazing, brilliant, person. Someone I could have saved. Someone who died because I was thick enough to hesitate.

"It wasn't your fault John," the Detective, inspector reminded me, his tired face gazing at me worriedly. "It was a miracle you managed to get there in time to kill the cabby. You barely knew him."

I nodded vaguely from underneath the annoyingly, bright orange, shock blanket. I didn't need it. I'd gone through Afghanistan without a shock blanket to help me out. But this was so different, there wasn't an army, wasn't a defended country, just Sherlock. One bullet too late, and a pill.

When you're with Sherlock, you walk the battlefield. Sherlock's arch enemy had told me, and it was true really, so why did it feel so much more intense? The fail so much more terrible...

That was the craziest thing I've ever done!

And you invaded Afghanistan. No, not his voice. Not the calculating looks Sherlock eyed everything with, soaking up every deduction he could make. I couldn't think of that, not now. Because I could have fixed it, fixed it so his rare laughter was with me now, recalling the case, the close shave, the brilliant shot. Instead that's what everyone else said, great shot, finally got the murderer. But that didn't matter, because I was a doctor, and doctors were supposed to save people, I couldn't do that. Not this time, not when it really mattered

"John, you can go home now," Lestrade's voice, broke the eiry barrier between my own one minded thoughts and the rest of the world.

I didn't say anything, didn't even realize I had decided to move as I walked off towards Baker Street. I wasn't about to take a take a taxi. Not now, perhaps not ever again. It had been the cabby all along. Had Sherlock known? Of course he had. But for how long? Could he have saved himself?

"Excuse me," I murmured, shoving past a tall man, that I didn't even bother looking up at as I passed.

"Is it really true that he...?" the man asked, his voice sickeningly familiar. But there was something not right about the familiarity, there was sadness. "Did he really die?"

"Why should you care," I spat annoyedly. "If you're really his arch-enemy wouldn't you be happy?"

"Oh course not," 'M' scoffed, looking down at me distastfully. "I would never want that on my little brother."

"He's your little-?" I attempted to ask, but apparently what i had to say didn't matter.

"You could have saved him. There was a chance for you to save his life, wasn't there?" this M character asked, bluntly intruding on the fact that he had been the slightest distraction of. "You had a chance and you blew it. He always thinks there's some way out. You must have been that hope."

Unable to answer, I gazed down at the ground, managing to pull past Sherlock's brother. He didn't follow me. Left me to his own deductions. And me to mine. Had Sherlock really done that all to stall the killer? Make sure I arrived to scoop in and save the day? Because he had been wrong. I couldn't save him. The one deduction he had missed.

The flat was so terribly empty. The creaks seemed to echo in the space, doing nothing to fill the ghostly presence of memories. It shouldn't have been bad, I knew that. Naturally, I've dealt with death before. It always was rather haunting, but never had such whispers and shadows of the few days we had had.

_Mrs Hudson took my skull._

_I'm replacing your skull?_

_Don't worry, you're doing a fine job of it._

What made this so trajick? I had met him a couple days ago... Was it the fact that I could have saved him? Was it how easily we clicked? Was it because he was such a brilliant man? No, there was something more, something deeper that I couldn't quite put my finger on. But that didn't matter, not really, because now I was just sitting alone at 221b, the lost doctor who had blindly followed the world's only consulting detective to a crime scene, and failed at saving him.


	2. Chapter 2

2/3

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson, I know I can't afford to live in this flat," I assured her wearily, leaning heavily on my crutch a month later. "How come you haven't billed me yet?"

"No need to worry about it dear," Mrs. Hudson brushed off with a kind smile. "It'll get through just fine."

I shrugged at the good natured woman. Why was I even still here? All the flat gave me was ghost memories and making me extremely guilty. And yet... somehow I couldn't get myself to leave. It was like some sort of poison, eating away at my insides. Mrs. Hudson will kick me out, I can't pay the rent; then this whole nightmare will be over, I had assured myself at first, but it soon became apparent that she didn't have the heart to kick me out.

I limped up the stairs and eased myself on to the plush chair next to the fire, propping up the union jack pillow behind me. The much more rigid chair was still in place just feet away, Sherlock's chair. I couldn't move it, try as I might, because every time I looked over, Sherlock was sitting quietly, his fingers poised against each other, resting at his lips, and the chair was too heavy to move with him in it.

Desperate for some sort of distraction, I reached for the newspaper. Ghost killer breaks into locked flat. No, that wasn't a distraction, because that was Sherlock's division. If he was here right now he would jump in the air in excitement before dashing off with me in his trail. But that was if he was here. He's not, all because of me.

Suddenly, a breathless Lestrade came into the flat. He leaned against the wall, mouthing wordlessly for a moment before starting to talk. "Sorry, came here out of habit. You've heard about the ghost killer I assume? Yes well, we're all just rather stumped."

We sat in an awkward silence for a minute.

"Would you like to, erm, take a look?" he asked hesitantly. "You did train with him for a case. I don't think anyone else can say that."

"Until I failed him," I replied thickly, my voice oddly husky. As I talked I seemed to get louder and louder. "There would have been more cases if I had been there when he needed me. Sod this, you wouldn't need my help if I hadn't screwed up in the first place, because he would have already solved it!"

Lestrade tensed, but didn't make note of my outburst. "Will you come?"

"Sure, sorry," I nodded, lifting myself up from the chair, depending solely on the crutch. "I'll come."

"Didn't you stop having that limp...?" Lestrade asked as we got into the police cab.

"Well, yeah, it's back now," I muttered uncomfortably, my gaze flickering out the window. I couldn't think about Sherlock, I couldn't-

Yes, I'll come. But not in the police car, I'll follow behind.

And here I was now, riding in the police car to a case that should have been his. Van Coon had been found in his flat by a visiting friend. Killer had somehow gotten in and out without leaving a mark. Sherlock would have known how he'd gotten in.

"Sorry, what am I here for?" I asked, my brain oddly connecting the smell of blood with our case of the pink lady.

Lestrade gaped at him. "To figure things out... deduce things!" His shoulders slumped helplessly, the less than hopeful glimmer in his eye shrinking into nothing. "I'm sorry. You're not Sherlock. I should have never tried to bring you here."

I looked helplessly around the room in another unsuccesful sweep. Because there was something here, some unatrual ridge in the carpet or some special weakness in the window that Sherlock would have spotted in a second. But I wasn't Sherlock, and he'd never deduce something ever again because of me. Without a word, I left. No one stopped me, there was no reason for me to be there.

I took a cab back to our flat. It was almost all packed up now, I couldn't stand the hauntings of the messy place, and definitely couldn't afford it, I really should just move out. Just as something to do, something to fill the endless nothing, I opened my laptop to my blog. The last entry stood solid. I had typed up the case, in hopes that doing so would help me feel better. I had been wrong. The last words solid.

I had failed.

Even now my stomach lurched slightly at them. Quickly I scrolled down past the article and into the comments.

Sorry, mate, wasn't your fault.  
Bill Murray 07 February 14:32

Chin up John. There was no way you could have known he'd take it.  
Mike Stamford 07 February 16:10

The rest I had deleted, because I had been so tired of seeing theimprobableone and Harry's argument over if the unknown viewer would have been able to stop the killer- No wait, another comment was at the end.

You blew it, Johnny boy. I'm getting bored.  
Anonymous 08 February 12:00


	3. Chapter 3

**__****3/3**

* * *

"You finally got a proper job then," Harry hissed over the phone as I made my way to the first day at St. Barts where I had found a job as a doctor. If I couldn't make myself leave 221b at least I could manage to pay the proper rent for Mrs. Hudson's sake.

"Yes," I muttered through gritted teeth. "Cabby, let me off here please-"

Crash!

Suddenly I was sailing through the air, the deafening bang still ringing in my ears. For a split second everything was floating in mid-air, blown away by what ever had just happened. Then time sped up and I was sent sprawled onto the ground, my body luckily splayed out of the car as it crashed around me. Lucky I wasn't dead or nearly there.

"What the hell?" I groaned, sitting up slowly, leaning heavily on my palms. Everything ached immensely. I cast my gaze around to see the hospital blown up around me. If I had been any closer I'd doubtlessly be dead. Oh god, why...? Some clear bit in me still wide awake from my years in the army realized now would be about the right time to head over to New Scotland Yard, which was thankfully less than a mile away. My body aching, I drove my feet forward. I'd tell Lestrade, and all the other police... everything would be alright.

The police are idiots, Sherlock's voice echoed in my mind. But I couldn't think about that... not now... There it was, just a block away, I could make out Lestrade sitting in his office from the window-

Boom!

This time I was so far away that all I could do was watch as the police station collapsed into rubble and dust. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson... all dead if they had been in there, any other police in the building, anyone walking past. Again, the building I was going to, blew up right before I got there. Blew, where had I heard that word recently. It had been somewhere... oh.

You blew it, Johnny boy. I'm getting bored.

But what did that have to do with this. Just an anonymous note on my blog. Not even quite a threat. It could all be coincidence... it could be Sherlock's enemy, he seemed to have multiple of those. I needed to get home, maybe go to sleep to find this was all a bad dream. I called over a taxi-

Bang!

This time there was no explosion, just the heart pounding sound that pushed at bringing me back to memories of the battle field. The cab stopped, landing neatly next to me. I already knew what I'd fine before I dropped my gaze to the cabby, a bullet through his heart.  
"Oh god..." I stumbled back, sure I was use to death and gunshot-but it was something so completely different when a man was shot because he pulled over to give me a ride. Who the hell was targeting me? I fingered the gun I had failed to kill Sherlock's attacker in time with.

A black car pulled up, its windows tinted. It was the same car that had taken me away before. The same, exact, car. Maybe it was Sherlock's brother? Perhaps he was insane? Wanted to get vengence since the killer was already dead. Or maybe he was trying to protect me...?

"Get in the car Dr. Watson," a male voice snapped, his tone almost bored. "Or should we make your position clearer?"

Without hesitation, I walked stiffly into the car, still one hand resting on my gun. The back area was empty-no Anthea this time-the front seats blocked off by the same tinted glass. The car ride was longer this time, only slightly. After about half an hour we halted.

"Drop the gun Dr. Watson," the same voice hissed from in the front of the car. "Come out with your hands up." Clenching my fists slightly at how absolutely powerless I was, I came out with my hands up, the gun left behind. The man in front of me was tall and burly, with blond cropped hair, and a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. "This way."

Wordlessly I let myself get lead by gunpoint into a shadowed building, down several hallways, and into... an indoor pool? The little glimmer of light glistened like a web cast upon the murky water. It was pretty safe to say this wasn't for protection at this point. The man walked back into the shadows, leaving me alone in the dark swimming pool. A step echoed from the other side of the room.

"Who's there?" my voice stayed surprising steady-but then again what I imagined could never be worse than the reality.

"You're no fun," a whiny, Irish-accented voice called out as a figure begin to loom into view. "Sherlock would have figured it out ages ago. But then again, there isn't any Sherlock because of you. Said it yourself, it's all your fault. Jim Moriarty, hi!"

"You know Sherlock...?"

"You're so dull, so exceedingly dull! I never knew him. But he was brilliant, only consulting detective in the world, and pretty soon the second consulting criminal. Well, if you hadn't ruined all the fun." The figure stepped out of the shadows, swaggering in his fancy suit , eyeing me with a steely cold gaze.

"Consulting criminal?"

"Your lovely Sherlock just took gigs from the angels, idiot police. There are so many hungry clients out there. I'm the first consulting criminal of course, specialist just like your ex-boyfriend. That you happened to kill, oops!"

"Then how come I'm here?" I asked, seeing that this was just all about Sherlock this, Sherlock that.

"Isn't it obvious?" Jim scoffed, raising his eyebrow. "You really are that thick then. Well, I had this whole set up for Sherlock-once I was ready. I'd cut loose all those people, just to try and see him dance. But you, you ruined that all! All I was left with was too many extra bombs on my hands, and so much boredom. Figured I could at least get a few miles of fun out on you before taking my revenge."

"But... I didn't kill him," I muttered kind of insanity was this person? But in a way he was right, I didn't save him. I deserved this.

"Really, Johnny boy?" Moriarty scoffed, running his hand along something glinting in his pocket. "You said it yourself. I had failed. You were rather self centered in that blog of yours."

"Anonymous," I muttered, groaning. Why did I ever write such a thing on my blog?

"I don't like getting my hands dirty. Seb, time to play with fire," the madman grinned, tossing the glinting object to his companion who held the gun behind me. "You're going to burn, burn the very heart out of you. Because, that's what I was going to do to dear Sherlock if he didn't comply, and he never showed any heart except when it came to you Johnny boy. So I'm still going to do him the favor."

I yelped out in pain and surprise as Seb dropped fire from the lighter onto my foot, and the flames crawled up onto my shoe. The burning, searing heat, roasting away, peeling at my shoe, licking my feet. It was agony. But of course, fire spreads. It caught onto my pants, flying up my leg and bringing the flickering pain, and constant torment in its wake. Being a soldier, I had experienced pain, gun wounds-enough to take me out of comissiong. But this, this was pure torture. Never had I felt something with such a tormenting agony. I had collapsed, Seb's uninterested features and Jim's joyful smile looming above me. My breath caught in my throat as the searing burn spread to my chest and-everything just stopped. Even the fire's flicking light blacked into nothing. The last thing I remembered was the complete and utter pain accompanied by Jim Moriarty's insane laughter.

* * *

"Sherlock!" my voice rang on deaf ears. Quickly I pulled the trigger of my gun. The bullet split the air, splintered the window, and the cabby fell down dead. Sherlock dropped the pill, and raised to the window to see his attacker's attacker, but I was already long gone.

* * *

**_And this is the point where we're all thankful John is such a deadshot and both of the main characters are still alive! Thank you for all the feedback and fishes!_**


End file.
